


the theory of everything

by yourendlessblue



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Accidents, Alternate Universe, Berthold is a selfish man, F/M, Multiple Timelines, Original Character-Riza's Mother, Sickness, Time Travel, Young Royai, but Roy is too, i mean there's bound to be a price for messing with time, look i'll just come clean hawkeye's gonna die multiple times, parallel timelines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 08:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27348418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourendlessblue/pseuds/yourendlessblue
Summary: By rule of the universe, there has never been, never is, never will be a time when Roy Mustang doesn’t love Riza Hawkeye.—Berthold Hawkeye develops a way to travel back in time to when he would meet Elinor Grumman, and prevent her untimely death due to childbirth complications. (Or, he would not mind a world without Riza Hawkeye.)Roy Mustang is his disciple and protege who could not, and would not, imagine a world and a life without Riza Hawkeye. (Or, in time, history repeats itself.)
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 7
Kudos: 50





	1. part 1, chapter 1

> _**PART 1 ;** an art to life's distractions_
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Chapter 1 | when i was a child, i'd sit for hours**

_1892 - 1897_

Papa’s in a good mood.

Riza knew this because he was humming and Papa didn’t often hum or sing. He furrowed his eyebrows and hunched over his yellow-brown papers, in the library, his back to her. Usually, he only stopped working if Riza told him she was hungry or very, very bored. Good thing she’s not easily bored. Even if she was, oftentimes she’d just doze on the couch Papa slept in, and usually, she would wake up in her bed.

But today Papa’s humming and he asked her to go with him to town, and told her they’re eating duck pie tonight. Riza _loved_ Papa’s duck pie. He said Mom had taught him to make one before she had passed.

“Riza,” he said after he tucked her into her bed. Papa didn’t often tuck her into bed, because he had many, many works to do. _Can you tuck yourself in tonight, darling? Papa’s still a little busy._ “Riza, would you like to meet Mommy?”

She watched him, eyes widening and mouth falling to an _o_. “Can I?”

“I think we’ll be able to,” he said, stroking her hair. “Papa found a good uncle who can show us how to meet Mommy.”

“Will we meet Mommy in heaven?” She whispered, awed. Papa laughed, and shook his head.

“No, darling. We’ll meet her here in earth.”

Papa kissed her forehead and Riza wanted to ask more, things like, _is Mommy going to travel here from heaven?_ , and _is she going to come with the train, Papa?_ , and _can we visit her in heaven next time?_ , but her eyes felt very heavy. She dreamt of Mom, smiling at her and opening her arms wide, just like in the photograph Papa had shown her. In her dreams, Mommy moved. In her dreams, Mommy hugged her.

+

Papa showed her what he wrote on his papers all day (and sometimes all night), one day. Riza found out that no, Papa did not write, he drew. He drew circles. Lots of them. Circles and circles inside circles and writings in strange shapes Riza didn’t knew. The drawings are strange but mesmerizing. Papa also showed books, books that looked very old and brittle.

“These are how we’re going to meet Mom,” he told her as he held her up.

“The circles?”

“Yes, the circles,” Papa said, kissing her cheek. “They’re called alchemy. These are specifically called _time_ alchemy.”

“How are the circles going to bring us to Mom?” She asked. “Are we going to give the circles to the train Mister and then he’ll take us to Mommy?”

Papa laughed. Papa rarely laughed and Riza liked it when Papa laughed, because Papa studied a lot and his face was serious when studying, and Riza did not like it too much. “No, darling. It would make us travel through time.”

+

Papa was very smart. He taught Riza everything she knew.

“Pay attention, Riza,” he said, and Riza did. “This is what alchemy could do.”

So Riza paid attention. Papa had drawn a large circle with smaller circles inside on a scrap piece of paper on top of the kitchen table and put a small, but heavy, brown stone in the middle of it. Then, Papa put his hands on either side of the circle. They glowed red and yellow and orange, and Riza yelped as she jumped off the chair to hide behind Papa.

“Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you,” Papa said soothingly, stroking her hair fondly and stepping aside so she could see the small stone and circle again, “look, Riza.”

There was no longer a small stone, now, but a small figure of a little girl with long hair in a dress. It looked like her. “Is that me?”

“Yes,” Papa said, “alchemy turned one thing into another thing. What I just did, is that I turned the bronze scrap into a small bronze statue of you.”

Riza cautiously reached out to the figure and held it. It was warm. She stared at the small figure in awe, turning it around her small hands.

“It’s incredible, right, darling? One day Papa might teach you,” he said, lifting her into his arms. “But now, I’m going to study more about alchemy, so it can be used to not just transmute objects, but bring us to Mom. Now, dear, can you go play at your room as Papa study?”

She nodded. She was used to playing alone as Papa studied. She was excited, about being able to learn alchemy, one day, but most of all, she wanted to meet Mom quickly, so she would let Papa study. “Okay.”

“Be a good girl.”

She nodded and ran upstairs, to play with dolls and to read the books Papa gave her though she didn’t know some of the words. It soon made her sleepy, though, and she climbed up her bed to curl into her blankets.

It must be way past noon when Riza finally woke up, because her stomach was rumbling. She was hungry. She called for Papa and ran downstairs to the library, but he didn’t answer. That was fine, Papa sometimes didn’t hear her when he was working and studying.

When she opened the door to peek, Riza froze. The air was glowing yellow and orange and Papa was on his knees on the floor, on all fours. Riza’s eyes went downwards and she realised he’d drawn a big alchemy circle on the floor, and _that_ was the thing that glowed. Because it was a big circle, the glow was brighter than the one at the kitchen table. The glow looked like the flame in their fireplace, and they danced in Papa’s eyes. Papa had a smile on his face—but it was… scary.

Riza closed the door, and opted to wait.

+

Papa taught her a lot of things.

The things he taught her were hard. They were far harder than the things she learnt at school—if anything, the things she learned at school, Papa had taught her earlier. Riza didn’t mind. She rarely spent time with Papa, because he had a lot to do, a lot to study (so they could meet Mom), and the times when Papa schooled her at home were the only times they really spend together. So Riza tried very hard to be good in her studies, and to follow Papa’s hard lessons, so Papa was happy.

The alchemy was the hardest of all.

For one, there were _so many_ names of elements and chemical reactions and equations she needed to memorise. Second, Papa was not very patient, but Riza managed, so he was quite happy. She learned to make simple arrays to transmute some small things, now, like the small figure Papa showed her one time, and Papa taught her to fix her broken doll with alchemy. Papa beamed at her and told her that sooner than later he would teach her Xerxian language and alphabet that were better to use within her circles.

“Good girl,” he said, “your progress is very good, and my progress with time alchemy is going superb as well. When we finally meet Mom, you should show her what you can do. She’ll be very proud of us.”

Riza would like that. She would like that very much.

+

The girls and boys at school had birthday parties. Riza knew her birthday she was eight-years-old, and she would be turning nine in a month. All her life Riza only knew her birthday to be the day her age changed, she didn’t know that you were supposed to congratulate or celebrate it. Papa never congratulated her. When she asked Papa, he told her it wasn’t important, so Riza didn’t ask permission to go to Helen’s birthday party, much less ask Papa to hold her one next month.

The day of Helen’s birthday party, Riza went to pick blueberries at the forest to make a jam. The year before, Papa gave her a book. It was a notebook, with handwritings of recipes of various food. “Mom made it,” he told her, “Riza, now that you’re a big girl, can you help Papa out with cooking food? Lately Papa doesn’t have the time. After all, I’m getting closer to figuring out how we can meet Mom.”

Cooking was one thing Papa didn’t teach her. She tried to understand it all by herself. Papa told her Mommy had some more cooking books around the library, and she should try to read them. Riza did as she was told, and while she didn’t understand about the stirring and straining and sauteeing, and while she burnt her hands holding the pan the first time, and burnt the noodles dry while she was at it, too, it was comforting to see Mommy’s neat, loopy handwriting. She got a bit better and better over time, and Papa wasn’t very picky with his food so he was never angry at her, even though she knew sometimes it was too salty or too overdone. (She tried to use alchemy to cook, it never worked.)

If anything, Papa was hardly eating, these days, between his own work and study and research; he barely had any time to teach her more about alchemy, and Riza started to teach herself that alone, too. He often only ate when she reminded him to, and only eating after his plate had gone cold, sometimes. “Sorry, dear,” he said, “I was caught up in the work and research. You want to meet Mom quickly too, don’t you?”

Riza wanted to meet Mom quickly, yes, so she only nodded.

+

On the day of her birthday, she made up her mind to go to Papa and tell him. It sounded a little silly, but she wanted to tell him— _Papa_ , _today’s my birthday,_ and she wanted to be congratulated, for the first time. She knew Papa would probably be up already, in the library. Yesterday she stayed up late—past nine, to bake herself a cake, from one of Mom’s recipes that she found. It turned out well, and she wanted to celebrate a little with cake for her and Papa.

But when she opened the door to the library and peeked inside, Papa wasn’t there. She opened the door wide, and she saw that on the floor, there was a large array, an array so delicate and confusing and filled with the Xerxian alphabet Papa hadn’t gotten around to teach her, and it was glowing. It was active. It glowed red and orange, mostly red, and it was unsettling—most alchemical arrays glowed yellow-orange when active, a soft glow that were warm like a flame. Riza suddenly felt panic settling in, and she immediately looked around the house to find that Papa was nowhere to be seen.

Her cake forgotten, she ran out to the woods though she knew Papa wouldn’t be there. She ran back to the house and stopped before going inside—should she get help? She didn’t know where she would get help, she didn’t. Papa’s the only alchemist in town, and she was very sure Papa was gone because of alchemy—and Papa said to her to never talk to anyone about their plan to meet Mom, so—

She ran back inside, almost crying, and when she opened the library door, Papa was there. Riza burst into tears.

“Riza, darling,” he said, hugging her, “Papa just traveled through time. Are you ready to meet Mom?”

+

It was the day.

She was now nine-years-old and five-days. Today, she would finally meet her Mom for the first time. Riza felt giddy all over. She tied her hair back in a low ponytail and wore her best dress, a checkered light blue dress over her whitest blouse and wore her nicest cardigan, a fuzzy blue one with a flower button. The cardigan had a small stain on the hem on the right side—it had been there ever since Papa gave it to her—but it was the nicest she owned, and it wasn’t too visible.

Papa also cleaned up, he wore a crisp white shirt and tweed jacket. He had told Riza very specifically on what she should do, the steps-by-steps as they would travel time to meet Mom. Riza anxiously memorised it all. She was ready, expectant, and nervous.

“One,” they lowered themselves to the ground, her beside Papa, “two,” they hovered their palms by the edge of the circle, “three.”

The circle simmered with a red glow and then it brightened, growing and growing and engulfing them like fires, and then suddenly, they were in a swirl. They were floating, in a swirl of red glow and the floating objects inside Papa’s library. Riza caught a glimpse of Papa in the midst of it all, wanting to ask what they should do next, when she saw Papa looking back at her, shock in his eyes, a horror, and then, suddenly, something flashed.

Next thing she knew, there was an excruciating heat on her back.

+


	2. part 1, chapter 2

> _**PART 1 ;** an art to life's distractions_
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Chapter 2 |** **as Mack explained, there will be darkness again**

_1899 - 1902_

Riza jumped as she heard the door slam.

She hurriedly turned off her lights, even though she knew it wouldn’t matter, and her father would have seen the lights of her bedroom door from outside. And it also wouldn’t matter if he knew whether she was awake or not, because P—because Father never really looked for her anyways, much less scold her.

So when he knocked on her door, Riza jumped again—and this time, her heart did, too.

She jumped off the bed and frantically tried to smooth out and pull down her old nightdress, now a little too short, riding almost to her mid-thigh, and pulled on a cardigan on her coat hanger. She opened her door to his Father’s tired, and scowling face.

“I saw your light and I thought you should still be awake,” he said, and Riza swallowed. “Did you make dinner? I haven’t ate.”

He hadn’t eaten the whole day, possibly, Riza thought, because when she returned from school the sandwich she’d packed for him to travel to the City was still on the dinner table. “Yes, Father. I will warm it for you.”

“I’ll be waiting in the library.”

Riza watched him descend, and only made her way down after she heard another slam to the door of the library. She took a deep breath, and went down the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible.

+

She was twelve when the first man came. He was a balding man, a little bit round and short, and he gripped her hand a bit too-tightly with a sweaty palm. Her father had welcomed him happily.

He packed his suitcase, red-faced with anger, and stormed out of the house three weeks later.

Riza knew what he was there for: secrets to time alchemy. After the accident, and after she’d healed enough, she found out that time alchemy, while not forbidden, like human transmutation and precious-metal transmutations, was a taboo and almost mystical thing. It was deemed too dangerous, both for the alchemist and the possible future alterations that the time travel might entail. It was mostly an unknown ground, uncharted territory—most alchemist scholars did not want to take the risks to study it further.

Her father had made some fortune to talk about it, at universities and conventions at the City. She knew it because she had caught some newspaper clippings in his desk, when she ventured inside while he was out. But soon the interest in time alchemy was gone—too far-fetched, too dangerous, too risky; the state might even ban it like the other two. And for that reason, Father’s state alchemist pay soon dwindled, and now the village now knew her father was an alchemist, a controversial one at that, and Riza soon found herself shunned at school.

And then, he no longer got invited to teach and talk about alchemy; Riza understood he was outcasted, believed to be loose in the head, perhaps.

Yet, the men continued to come. And went. They never wanted to help Father with his research, they were only there to take what they needed and go.

+

It was raining cats and dogs on her fourteenth birthday. She baked a duck pie for the occassion, having smarted her way around the monthly food allowance her father gave her, and if her father noticed the particular splurging on this day, after a week of surviving on stew and curry, he didn’t comment. Nor did he congratulate her.

They had to conserve the logs for the upcoming winter, so Riza had no choice but just to huddle in her blankets for warmth in her room instead of lighting the fireplace, and she read one of the three Drachman novels they had, shutting herself in. Funny, she seemed to be turning more and more like her father.

(But no, she knew she was growing to look more and more like Mom. She had the same light hair, the same nose, the same eyes and smile. She didn’t smile often, but she tried once in the mirror, and she looked—she looked like her. It was both a comfort, and an unsettling thing.

She was sure Father thought the same, from the way his eyes changed, sad and slightly in contempt, at the rare times he looked at her.)

The rain was hitting her windows so hard she thought someone was knocking the door downstairs—but then, she realised, someone _was_ knocking, no, _pounding_ , on the door downstairs. It spooked her a little, but it wasn’t like she could ask her father to leave his research for something as trivial as a possible intruder to the house, could she? She braved herself, going down to the front door in her nightgown and cardigan.

She opened the door to a drenched and shivering young man.

“Thank God,” he breathed, before giving her a shaky, trembling smile.

+

Roy Mustang was also there for time alchemy. In the morning after Riza let him stay for shelter, advising quietly that her father wouldn’t want to be disturbed at such an hour, he had gotten ready at seven and was prepared to knock on the library door when she stopped him.

“My father won’t come out of the study until somewhere after ten,” she told him as they sat on her dining table. She pushed a plate of toast towards him across the table. “Forgive me, I didn’t know you’re coming, so we don’t have anything.” To be honest, even if she did know, she couldn’t prepare anything either.

“Ah,” Mr. Mustang said awkwardly, sounding a little baffled, “I mean—I already imposed horribly by staying the night without meeting the master of the house… I’m afraid it would seem incredibly impolite of me.”

Riza contemplated this. “I’ll knock on his door and introduce you after we breakfast.”

Her father was, unsurprisingly, displeased. He looked at her, and then at Mr. Mustang in scrutiny. “Do not make a habit of letting strangers into the house, Riza,” he sighed. Riza swallowed, and nodded.

“Forgive me, Sir,” Mr. Mustang said, and Riza was so surprised at his response she instinctively looked up at him. “Your daughter—Miss Hawkeye—was extremely generous in letting me in for shelter from the rain. I do rather agree it’s slightly dangerous, but I assure I do not have any ill intentions, Mr. Hawkeye, Sir. Your daughter was just very kind.”

Her father looked at him in contemplation. “Very well,” he said gruffly, taking the plate of toast from Riza’s hand. “Riza, close the door on your way out.”

She did.

+

Mr. Mustang was friendly, a little bit chatty, even, and, to Riza’s dismay, quite handsome, with his messy jet-black hair and twinkling dark eyes and his easy smile. He was more courteous than the boys at her school and most definitely kinder (then again, they didn’t really care for her, except the occassional, degrading hollering she’d learned to ignore). No other alchemy disciple of her father had asked for her name, but the moment they met again after her father had kept him in the study—so, the next day—that was the first thing he asked her. She told him to still call her Miss Hawkeye, though, because—because propriety.

He was smart—no, intelligent, even. This, she knew, and perhaps, not as power-mongering as the others who sought for the secrets of time alchemy from her father, because he stayed for three weeks, then four, then five with little problem besides looking somewhat stressed over the reading materials her father had given him. He was already way past the level of alchemy she had known, the last time she used it, so she couldn’t help him; it was, however, somewhat nice to study with another person, even if they weren’t studying the same things.

He also helped her around the house, insisted to, in fact, when she told him he shouldn’t have to. “I help around my house all the time,” he said with a charming smile, “you forget that, I was _bossed_ around the house. I have tons of sisters. I’m used to working house chores, don’t worry.”

Sooner than later, she found herself liking his presence—it had been so long, so, so long since she wasn’t alone, since she had a friend. It had been years since someone had shown her simple, unbridled kindness and consideration, had regarded her nicely, had been her friend. She wondered if she could call Mr. Mustang her friend—probably not. Not now, anyways; he was a bit older than she was, almost by three years, and they still called each other _Mr. Mustang_ and _Miss Hawkeye_ and really, they didn’t talk a lot and friends usually talk a lot to each other. Mr. Mustang was busy learning and helping her father with the research, and he didn’t have time to make small talks with her.

Mr. Mustang was _passionate_ about alchemy. He talked about his lessons to Riza over dinners and breakfasts and lunches, which she listened patiently, despite knowing full well she didn’t understand (she didn’t want to understand, she didn’t care about alchemy anymore).

(But sometimes, seeing, and listening to Mr. Mustang made her think alchemy might not be so bad after all.)

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yep two chapters right away because these should be one chapter but by god i have no idea how to not make the first chapter note be a note for all chapters.  
> ANYWAYS!!! a time travel au! so down the line it might get confusing and i might get shaky, so don't hesitate to leave comments if there's anything you wanna know. in the meantime, i wanna say, i always view berthold quite sympathetically (ur within ur full rights to call me a berthold hawkeye apologist but HEY the dude's a depressed widower and mad scientist i pity him sometimes). i like the idea that he's actually loving towards riza in the beginning, but gradually cools of because of his obsession with alchemy, so that's how i wanna set the tone.  
> i hope the idea of this is interesting to you guys! stay healthy, stay safe <3


	3. part 1, chapter 3

> _**PART 1 ;** an art to life's distractions_
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Chapter 3 | how pure, how sweet the love beneath it**

_1903_

She didn’t jump anymore when he unceremoniously slid next to her, silently taking the wet dishes she finished washing to dry. It was Mr. Mustang’s third month staying in their house, and now Riza was fully acclimated to having him—she woke up at six, to prepare for his breakfast, and hers. He’d stumble into the kitchen around seven, with his bedhead and bleary eyes, yawning away the remnants of sleep. Sometimes he’d wake later in the day, usually after her father had kept him up well into the night, but he was more or less a person of routine. It was nice, because she was too.

After breakfast he’d thank her and clean his own dishes, as she prepared her father’s breakfast and coffee. At seven-thirty she’d be prepared to go out the door to school—and usually, he’d wait by the library door, leaning on the wall as she descended the stairs to wish her good luck at school, before going inside the library himself.

It was nice, overwhelmingly nice, sometimes, to have someone send her off almost every day—so nice that Riza often found herself having to fight back a blush and a smile all the way to the academy.

He wouldn’t be there when she returned; still holed up in the library, with Father, and she doubted he was used to late lunches, but he never complained. He made sure to gave her his (pretty) smile and gratitude when she slipped in the library quietly, to give them both their lunch. Her father usually only grunted in response, if he responded at all.

At dinners he would join her, dragging his alchemy and physics textbooks to pore over after he’d finished helping her clean up; he would tell Riza in passing what his lessons for the day consisted, not minding her subdued, little responses. She knew he could’ve used the main living room to study in, or even his room—the main living room had their fireplace, and the kitchen grew cooler by the hour into the night. As it were, he seemed to take notice that she did her homework on the dining table, and joined her.

Besides all that, though, he didn’t coax her to talk, didn’t force conversations. He’d sheepishly asked her to tell him if he bothered her. She honestly answered: he never did. The times that passed with him in their house felt fleeting, quick and comfortable; his presence tangled into her life seamlessly like he was always supposed to be there.

There was a sense of yearning, a wish that he’d approach her, asked to befriend her (because of course she couldn’t ask him); she wanted to call him Roy and him to call her Riza, to maybe show him some of her favourite spots at the forest, to perhaps drag him to the lake, possibly midway to freezing at this time, and wait out for deers that sometimes showed up to drink. Maybe when it was fully frozen, she could take him skate.

But she kept reminding herself—Mr. Mustang was here to learn, here for time alchemy. He wasn’t here to befriend a boring, lonely girl younger than he, whose primary interest ironically aligned with her father—reading and studying something new (except alchemy, anything except alchemy).

+

“Go ahead, talk to him, Bette.”

“No _you_ do it, Helen!”

“If you girls are going to make a fuss about it _I’ll_ go talk to him.”

As she was approaching, Riza felt their eyes turn to her, and their hushed whispers subside. As Bette and Lynn ignored her again, Helen caught her eyes, and mouthed a small _hello;_ Riza averted her eyes, and side-stepped so she could pass by them through the threshold of the academy gate. She pulled the lapels of her coat tighter—it really was getting a little too thin from the years of wear, but she’d probably have to save up for three months or so to get a new one. By then, it’d be closer to spring.

She had walked barely five steps before stopping dead in her tracks.

Mr. Mustang was standing right at the outside of the gate, one hand deep in the pocket of his own dark coat and another holding a small package by his side. He waved the package at her, and smiled so brilliantly Riza wasn’t sure to be giddy or mortified.

“Miss H—Riza, hey,” he called, and Riza felt her feet frozen in place—she blinked twice, surely mortified, now. She could hear the faint gasp Bette made (always the dramatic little—) and then muffled whispering from the group, who, to her dismay, didn’t make a move to go. She quickly gathered her bearings, and almost ran to approach him.

“Why are you here?” She asked, whispering furiously as she dragged him by his forearm. “How’d you know—“

“There’s only one academy here, Miss Hawkeye,” he said, raising his brows. “I had an errand to run at town and a package from the postal office to fetch. Why are you whispering?”

“Because,“ she sighed, gesturing for him to walk with her, quickly away from the undoubtedly still gossiping girls. “It’s—a small school. A small village. My father wasn’t exactly the most likeable person here either, Mr. Mustang.”

“Ah, well,” he nonsensically said, and Riza realised he now looked a little more self-conscious, and with more mortification she realised she was still holding onto his forearm, which she released immediately as if she had been holding a hot pan. “I—sorry, then. As I said, I had an errand, and I thought, your school should be finished soon, so we might as well walk home together. I thought it’d be nice.”

The confession sounded sincere, and slightly wounded. Riza didn’t know what to feel, seeing Mr. Mustang’s reddening ears and slight pout, and for the first time, she realised how youthful Mr. Mustang looked—was—that he was a teenager still, like she was, like her schoolmates were. She’d always seen him as an older boy, brilliant and tenacious, warm and kind, and figured he must be rather mature. The realisation threatened a smile to break across her face.

Riza let them walk in silence, side-by-side, for a little while. Only after looking back and making sure the school’s out of sight did she talk again. “Thank you,” she finally said, “I mean. I never walked with anyone home from school.”

Mr. Mustang looked at her, and finally smiled. “Anytime.”

“Why did…” she began hesitantly—might as well ask anything, now, as her adrenaline’s running high, “why did you call me Riza, just now?”

“Oh,” his eyes turned red at the tips again. “I’m… sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude—I thought it’d sound a little strange if I called you Miss Hawkeye in front of your friends, so. But now I take it they aren’t so friendly?”

“Oh no, they are,” she said, “just not to me.”

They were silent, for a while, the only sound their footsteps against the snow, crackling and rustling. She shivered slightly when a gust of wind blew past them; and subtly picked up her pace. Mr. Mustang ( _Roy, just call him Roy_ ) kept up, though, aligning his steps with her easily enough. “Did—“ she glanced up, and he cleared his throat, “I mean. Would you like me to… walk you to school, sometime? Or pick you up?”

She didn’t stop at her tracks, but instead continued walking, burying herself deeper into her coat, fists balled in her pockets. “That would be—“ _unnecessary_ , “—nice. Um. You don’t have to, though.”

“I’d be glad to, Miss Hawkeye,” he said sincerely with a small smile. His scarf was somehow undone now, and it no longer half-obscured the bottom half of his face.

Riza felt her face heat up, despite the biting cold. “You may call me Riza, if you want to,” she mumbled, deliberately making it hard for him to hear. “It’s not impolite at all.”

“Pardon?”

 _Nevermind_. “You may…” she said hesitantly, but louder, “call me Riza, if you’d like, Mr. Mustang. I don’t find it impolite—I mean, after all, you’re older than I am and—“

“Then you’d better call me Roy,” he said; and nothing could have prepared her for the way he grinned ear-to-ear as he looked at her, hair mussed and messy from the wind, cheeks and tips of the ear pink from the cold—nothing could prepare Riza for the way her heart missed a beat and the way her feet almost missed a step, “Riza.”

+

“I don’t have to go to Central this weekend,” he had told her, and Riza had raised an eyebrow. Roy shrugged. Every fortnight he’d return to Central on the weekends to his home, where his foster mother and aunt lived, along with several foster sisters. “My aunt will be gone on a business trip of some sort, and my sisters usually will be markedly busier when she’s away.”

“I see,” she’d carefully said, “well, Father would be pleased.”

He’d stared at her with a slightly strained expression. “Riza, the last things I want to do on my fortnightly break are working and studying, in that order.”

Riza had put down her Cretan reading material and straightened herself. It was getting warmer as they neared spring, and though there had been a short time period where they’d started to take their studying in front of the fireplace, they had brought it back to the dining room, where the lighting was brightest in the whole house. Roy had been leaning on his chair, spinning his pen on one hand, evidently having forgone his studying. “Well, I suppose you want me to play host,” she lightly said, and Roy grinned. “Alright. What do you want to do? Do you want to see the town?”

“Saw the town plenty,” he sniffed, and Riza smiled, “suggest me something. You could take me hiking or for a walk.”

“You just suggested something yourself,” she laughed, “alright.”

So on that Saturday morning Riza led him to walk the well-lit path by the woods towards the hillside and the lake, packing them both ham sandwiches and leaving portions for her father. She didn’t really care to tell her father they’d be gone, but Roy told her he had told her father and he’d gruffly told him to go ahead. Her surprise must’ve shown, because Roy shrugged. “Well, I’d be taking his daughter out for the day, I thought he ought to know.”

“I was under the impression that it goes the opposite way,” she said. Roy only hummed—it was easy to notice, probably from the get-go, how nearly nonexistent her relationship with her father was, but he never commented, nor asked. He’d shown her father high respects in the way he talked, but at the same time he treated her as normal, as kind.

“Is the creek any further?”

She was taking him to a creek at one side of the forest, one that drained from the large lake by the hill’s feet. The creek was still quite wide for one, but it was quieter, much more shallow, and the riverbed was lovely to have a picnic in; sometimes, deers would come out on the opposite end from the deeper part of the woods to drink. The lake was a more popular place for people to recreate, especially in the summers—and Riza hadn’t swam in forever, not since then. On hot summer days she’d walk to the creek and submerge her legs, feeling the gentle stream on her feet.

“Not used to long walks, city boy?”

“Hey,” he grunted, but immediately he moderated his labouring breath so she couldn’t hear him. She still could. “By the way, is it true that deers and wild animals drink out there?”

Riza hopped over a small hole on the path. “Mm.”

Silence. “What about, uh, other animals?” He asked, and Riza caught a tinge of nervousness in his words. “Is it really safe? I mean. What if there’re wolves and bears? The deers are prey to _something_.”

Riza restrained the urge to chuckle. The deers are prey for the humans at the village and town. She shrugged. “I don’t think there are wolves, never seen one. I don’t know about bears, though. I’ve seen a glimpse of something big and brown in the woods, once, when I was there.”

“Riza.”

She couldn’t help it—Riza laughed, and turned on her heels, walking backwards to laugh at him. Roy stared at her with a small scowl, his hands in his pants pockets but she could still see the nervousness underneath. “There’s no bears, Roy. I mean, I suppose. Never heard of bear sightings, never heard wolves howling either. The deers are— _ack_ —“

The five seconds went in a slow-motion; the short heels of her loafers slipped and stuck between cracks on the lane and Riza loses her balance backwards—in horror, she thought of _no, the sandwiches, my skirt, Roy’s going to see me fall!—_ but in a flash Roy’s hand reached out to pull her wrist so instead of falling backwards she stumbled forward.

Right on to him—Riza found herself nearly chest-to-chest with Roy, his one hand gripping her wrist and his other steadying her by the other arm, found his face _closer than ever_ , and the mortification instantly doubled. Like a fool, she immediately stepped back, though she literally had almost fallen in the exact same manner, Roy’s hand still around her wrist. He finally released his hold on her, with the raise of an eyebrow.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t know if you should run around to creeks meeting wild animals if you stumble around like that,” he teased, “you could’ve cracked your pretty head open if I wasn’t here. And the bears would eat you.”

“I would not,” she huffed, smoothing out non-existent creases on her skirt, and continued walking by his side, chalking up the rise of her heartbeat to her almost-fall. “And there’s no bears.”

_Pretty?_

+

She saw him right outside the gate of the academy, tapping his feet against the grass impatiently, and Riza immediately jogged towards him. Roy straightened his posture as he saw her, but the tension didn’t ebb away from his shoulders, still squared and guarded. Without any words, he fell into step with her and together they walked briskly to the lane that would lead to her house. The sun was warm still, the air slightly humid and heavy, and she noticed the hairs at the nape of his neck stuck with moisture, his white summer shirt not soaked but starting to stick to the skin of his back.

“How long did you wait for me?” She asked airily, hoping to ease a little of his tension.

“Around thirty-five minutes,” he said brusquely. Riza looked to his hands and found that he was still clutching the tied packet of letters in a death grip. “It was fine.”

“Did you eat the cold meat for lunch?”

“No,” Roy shook his head, “couldn’t find it in my stomach to eat.”

Riza sighed. “It’s because you don’t eat your stomach feels awful,” she chided him, knowing full well it’d fell on dead ears.

“I’d eat after I open these,” he petulantly said, as expected.

Giving up and knowing he truly wouldn’t be placated until he had torn the letters apart, Riza simply tried to keep up with his walk, growing more and more brisk as they went. Sooner than later, she found herself sweating and the tips of her hair at her nape tickled her neck. “You know you could’ve opened those as you waited for me if you’re so anxious.”

He slowed down, and gave her a withering stare. “Yeah, but I wanted to open it with you.”

Riza sighed, and stopped walking, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Well, I’m here. We’re already halfway home. Why don’t you just open them? Just rip the seal if you don’t have the opener with you.”

Roy, who stopped a couple of steps in front of her, reached into his pockets and pulled out the small metal with wooden handle, and Riza couldn’t help but smile. She walked towards him as him towards her, and as they met in the middle he tersely nodded to her. Riza patiently opened the tie over the letters and she twirled the rope around her fingers as he flipped each envelope in a frantic fashion, his letter opener wielding dangerously in his one hand—she took it without any words.

“This is from Aunt Chris, this is Vanessa, oh it’s this—wait, no, Cat’s god-awful handwriting, Jeanette… why do they all send me so many letters! Wha—even Pauline—“

He pulled out a thick, exquisite cream-coloured envelope with a proper wax seal, and Riza could see his hands tremble. He flipped it, and read the signage. “Mr. Roy Mustang, University of Eastern Amestris.”

She took the rest of the letters and handed him the opener. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

Roy took a deep breath and slowly slid the opener at the seam, popping it open and Riza took it promptly again as he pulled the paper from inside. She slid closer, peeking over his arm, and she only managed to read the bolded _acceptance_ when Roy enveloped her in an almost bone-crushing hug. “You got in!”

“I did, oh God, I can’t believe it,” he said, voice slightly muffled, and he didn’t release her from his hug. Riza decided to return the favour, and wrapped her less-busy arm around him and leaning her head on his chest, as her hand rubbed his back in what she hoped was a supportive way. From the rustling she could tell he was re-opening the letter, re-reading it behind her head. Riza could hear his heartbeat running off, and it was oddly soothing.

He tightened his hug around her again, his palm stroking her head, before he pulled back to look at her with a huge grin. “I got accepted! And they gave me a full-ride scholarship.”

“That’s amazing!” She exclaimed; his happiness was contagious, and only belatedly did the two of them remember they were still embracing before he stepped back, suddenly flustered and a bit red in the face. “Can I see?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

Riza exchanged the stack of letters and the opener with his university acceptance letter, and read the whole thing, pride blossoming in her chest. She was sure of how happy she was for his accomplishment that she didn’t expect the pang that came with reading the section that said _classes and orientation will take place on September 12th_.

She returned the letter with a big smile, and Roy re-read it again. “I’m really happy for you,” she told him as they started to walk again. He was still smiling, but then it faltered.

“Oh no,” he said, “your birthday. I’d already be gone.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, “I don’t ever celebrate my birthday anyways, it don’t matter, Roy, really.”

He slipped the paper back in and closed the envelope, stopping his walk to tie all his letters so he could carry them by the string. Riza patiently waited.

When he caught up to her again, Roy wordlessly took her hand in his, and didn’t let her go.

+

On the morning of September 9th Riza stood at the platform of the station, her palms resting on top of each other on the handle of her still-wet umbrella, that she used for light support. It’d been raining on their walk down to the town and then the station, and she held the umbrella for both of them; Roy’s head hit the underside, at times, but he had his arm around her on most of the way until they were truly in town and he took the umbrella in his hands. She’d linked her hands through the loop of his arm. His suitcase were slightly wet; he probably had leaned the umbrella a bit too much towards her side.

“I’ll be visiting,” he told her, and Riza smiled. She was slightly sad, yes, but she was only mostly happy. “I’ll bring you a gift for your birthday, because I can’t be here.”

She rolled her eyes, and Roy chuckled. “You don’t have to. You’re really overreacting.”

He’d still make trips to her home, would continue his time alchemy studies with her father; East City was, after all, much closer than his home at Central, and at the first four months of him living at her house he had commuted home fortnightly anyways. He would do it when his college works permitted him to, and she’d at least see him once a month or two. It would be disconcerting, she knew, after almost a year of living with him and being friends with him—she’d never had a friend so close, so dear before.

“Am not,” he insisted childishly, “I’ll write first thing after I’m situated, so you’ll know my correspondence address at university. Write me back.”

The train whistled, then, and the conductor yelled on top of his lungs for passengers to embark. “You should write your aunt first.”

Roy stepped forward. “Write me back?”

“Of course,” she sighed. “You’ll miss the train. We’ll see each other again. Good luck, Roy.”

She looked up at him, smiling, but Roy looked at her hesitantly. She opened her arms as he put his suitcase down and stepped in to give her a hug, warm and tight, and he didn’t quite let her go. Instead, both his hands went to cup either side of her face, and before Riza could do anything, he pushed her bangs aside and planted a long, soft kiss on her forehead.

She must’ve looked like an apple—because her whole face felt almost burned, the contact with his cool lips spread from her forehead throughout her face, and Riza’s words caught in her throat from the intensity of his eyes, from his handsome, boyish smile.

“Happy early birthday, Riza.”

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there’s this one modern au fic I read that was super cute and hilarious and brilliant that said riza is a virgo and roy is a libra and I am adopting that. absolutely. second that. perfect. i think it’s called hmmm made it cruisin? it’s hilarious I swear the moment I opened the first chapter I laughed for 10 minutes straight and it was an instant bookmark.
> 
> anyways! this fic is actually my project for nanowrimo--i've been getting pretty stressed with life lately, and writing, despite seemingly quite taxing, is kind of a reprieve for me. so i hope i'd be able to keep this up! enjoy! stay healthy and stay safe <3


	4. part 1, chapter 4

> **_PART 1 ; an art to life's distractions_ **
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Chapter 4 | sweet like cherry wine**

_1904_

Roy ended up being unable to visit—for the whole year. He’d write her, short, frequent letters that turned into scarce, pages-long ones, and Riza simply tried her best to treasure it all anyways. He did send her a birthday present along with his first letter back—a bookmark made of a paper-thin plate of bronze, with beautiful intricate carving. But the house felt empty again, threatening to cave into the hollow that re-occupied its insides, reminiscent of the time before he had came, when all that hung in the air was her unhealed wounds, and her father’s unsaid words she was not sure he even had.

She managed. Sometimes she made too much breakfast for two, and once she almost dropped a plate as she handed it to dry to thin air, but she didn’t cry; she wondered if crying would even be warranted, sometimes. Sometimes she’d thought that, after all, he was only there to learn, and perhaps a small-town, small-village girl desperate for a friendship was something he was all too happy to leave behind.

But he seemed to always have impeccable timing; he’d send her five pages worth of letters, sometimes going off tangent about physical theorems that she only managed to grasp the basics of, and he’d say _sorry_ , _I wish I could visit_ , _I miss you_ —and it was enough, somewhat, for her to hold on to. His letters were something like an anchor, to her, or perhaps a door—a door to a future less stale and quiet than her rural life; a future that perhaps she deemed still involved too much alchemy for her liking, but she’d be willing to compensate. She was only almost sixteen, after all, naive and hopeful and lonely and maybe in love.

“Riza?”

Riza turned her body to where the voice called her, and found herself face-to-face with Helen Atkins; she smiled thinly and nodded. “Hello, Helen.”

Her classmate stepped closer. Riza was filling out a form to send Roy her letters, having came straight from school. In the letters she told him how it’d be her last summer break before her last year of the academy. “Where are you sending them?” Helen asked hesitantly.

“East City.”

“To your—“ she cleared her throat, “um, your boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my father’s former student,” she answered, not lifting her head.

“You still responded,” Helen pointed out, and when she looked at her, she was smiling—not jeering, not teasing. Riza paused to think how to react. “Sorry. I used to see him wait for you sometimes, and thought he must’ve been very fond of you to often do so. Is he in school?”

“University,” Riza carefully said as she finished her forms and tidied her small stack of letters. She glanced outside. “You’re not out with Bette or Lynn?”

Helen shook her head. “Not today.”

“Alright, then,” Riza nodded. “See you.”

“Riza?” Helen called. “You know, next year’s our last year, and it’s been a while. Um, I’m not sure you remembered, but this Saturday’s my birthday, and we’re going to have a picnic at the lake. You should come. It’ll be a lovely day.”

She blinked, at a loss of word. It had been years since she had properly talked to one of her childhood friends, and since word got out of her father’s reputation, she thought the bridges had been burned. Riza consciously tucked her hair behind her ear. “I—thank you,” she awkwardly said, and Helen waved her with a sincere smile. She wondered if perhaps, things weren’t exactly the same as back then—then, after her back was burned, after her father’s alchemy career went south, after the village started to avoid them; the estranged alchemist and his daughter, once terribly sick from what must’ve been an alchemical experiment. She wondered if this time around she wouldn’t have to be the shut-in daughter of the shut-in alchemist again.

But maybe it was never going to be simple. That Saturday morning she stood in front of her mirror with her best summer dress, deliberately not packing a bathing suit, and she knocked the library door to tell her father she’d be gone only to hear a groan of her name. As Riza stepped in, she saw Father, laid bonelessly across the sofa, and her heart fell.

“Riza.” He sounded hoarse.

“Father?” She called, walking towards him. “Father, are you ill?”

He only answered after a fit of coughs. “Nothing a rest wouldn’t fix,” he said, and as she kneeled next to him Riza bravely put the back of her hand to his forehead. It felt hot to the touch. “And some soup, if you would make it for me.”

“You’re burning up,” she said, and for the first time in a long time Riza felt scared for her father again. “Father, don’t you want me to get the doctor for you?”

“No. No, you don’t need to fret,” he stubbornly said, despite still hacking up his lungs. “But I do need you to go to the post office. Send that letter on my desk for me.”

She rose up, walking to the desk that were still scattered with arrays and heavily-annotated books, picking up a single letter. _Van Hohenheim, Resembool_. Riza went to the kitchen to put the kettle on, and as it boiled she put the tea on his end table. “If it’s alright with you I’ll run to the town first, Father, and I’ll make the soup for brunch. The post office closes early in Saturdays.”

Father grunted in agreement. “Go ahead,” he said. “Did Mustang write you?”

Riza froze. “He—he did. Yes.”

“He told you when he would visit?”

“Last he said perhaps around Winter Solstice, but he’s not sure, Father,” she answered quietly, unsure where the conversation would go.

“Good,” Father sighed. Riza swallowed, and moved towards the door again, her father’s letter in her hands. “I met your mother, Riza.”

Her hands stopped halfway to the doorknob. Riza felt her chest ache, and her scars tingle. She gulped, and took a deep breath. “That’s good for you, Father,” she whispered.

+

_1905_

“What’re your plans now?”

Riza pulled her knees in, hugging her legs as she watched Helen sprawl on the mat they’d spread by the lakeside. Her friend’s hair was slightly damp, still, and the tips sparkle underneath the late summer sun. It wasn’t as warm anymore for a swim, but the water temperature hadn’t dropped. There were little their village teenagers could really do to celebrate graduations, anyways.

“I’m not sure. I’d like to continue to college,” she said, resting her chin on her knees, watching her other schoolmates who were still in the water.

“East City?”

“Perhaps,” Riza sighed, “I thought I wanted to be a governess, or a teacher.”

Helen raised herself up on her elbow, looking at her. “Really? A governess? That’s not so popular anymore though, is it?”

Riza shrugged. “I know some of our wealthier friends had one before they got old enough for the academy. My… father tutored me a lot when I was young. I suppose it’d be a bit similar.”

“No, I know,” her friend shook her head, “if you become a governess, though, you would have to stay with the family—you wouldn’t be able to start a family of your own. I mean, you have to educate your charges. You’d have to quit once you want to get married.”

“Well, better take care of the children who already exists.”

Helen pushed herself up to sit. “But your boyfriend.”

Riza smiled; she took a small breath and sighed sadly as she straightened her legs and leaned on her hands, looking up at the sky. “He hasn’t sent me, nor my father, a letter in months,” she shook her head, “I doubt he would mind. And you, what about you?”

“I’d probably get married.”

Riza took a detour after she excused herself early from the outing, walking the further way to the edges of the woods to the creek, and found herself counting cracks along the pavement. Her graduation had presented her with a large unknown; and she found that she had never really thought a lot about the future. The irony wasn’t lost on her that her father never did, either.

She hadn’t thought properly about the future; future seemed like an abstraction, like how world outside her family home seemed almost unreal. Once, she’d entertain the thought of following Roy to East City, to Central, to anywhere, but she wasn’t sure if such a thing would happen. Father’s health fluctuates, sometimes, and she knew it was due to his infrequent, but significant use of time alchemy. She knew, to a limited extent, what he worked on. She couldn’t bring herself to know more—but it was likely that it would bring harm to his health, to a certain degree. Time alchemy was dangerous. She knew that better than anyone.

Roy’s letters had stopped. She only sent a couple more unanswered ones before she stopped, herself. She didn’t blame him, and neither did her father seem to care. Sometimes she wondered if he truly had only been there for a year to leave an impression on her so profound—maybe she was just really too lonely.

Riza stopped to put on her shoes, that she had been carrying all the way from the creek, just as she’d walk up to her home. When her front door came to view, she stopped in her tracks.

She didn’t remember running—she didn’t remember _thinking_ , it had been a reflex, almost, but the next thing she knew her feet were almost hovering as Roy half-lifted her in his embrace, warm and safe. He released her back on her feet and looked at her with a devastating grin. “Expected no less as my welcome,” he said, releasing his hold around her waist to tuck her short hair behind her ear. He frowned. “You’re taller than I remember.”

“I think I am taller,” she laughed, “I thought—“

“Sorry about not sending letters,” he said seriously, taking both her hands, “I had to work and study quite a bit—a lot, actually, and I had to do it so I could have a longer vacation as I prepare for my third, and final year.”

Riza felt her heart jump to her throat. “You can stay?”

“For a whole month,” he grinned, “if you and your father would have me.”

+

She smiled when she heard the three raps at the door—Riza gingerly lowered herself to the floor from her bed and made sure that her nightgown was all properly in place. She open the door to a tired but smiling Roy. “Hey,” he greeted, “are you already going to bed?”

“No. Are you hungry? I could warm up dinner for you.”

Roy raised an eyebrow. “I already did that,” he leaned on her doorframe, arms crossed, “I missed you. Your father is absolutely ruthless—one week I've been here and it’s like he's given me the workload of the two years I’ve missed out.”

In the span of one week, it was like her balance was restored—he helped Father with alchemy research, and she was there for all the time he managed to be out. They’d eat with each other at breakfasts and dinners, and she didn’t have him all for herself, not by a long shot, but simply knowing his presence was near was enough.

Riza’s heart fluttered. “So what are you saying?”

“We could talk,” he smiled, “if you're not terribly tired, that is.”

“No,” she swallowed, throat suddenly feeling dry. “You could… come in, if you want.”

“Mm,” he said, coming closer as he gently caressed her cheek with his knuckle, “and risk being blasted by your father to the prehistoric period? I don’t think so. Would you join me in the living room?”

They sat side-by-side in front of the fireplace, shoulders and knees close but not quite touching; Riza had prepared them both ginger tea, but neither of them finished more than half of their respective cups. Roy had her hand clasped between both of his and his palms felt warmer than the flame burning the logs by them. She’d put on a cardigan over her nightgown, and he’d brought his blanket to spread over their legs. “Can Father actually do that? Send you to the prehistoric period?”

Roy chuckled. “I don't know, I don't think so. But your father is capable of many things.”

“Whilst you were gone, he… he traveled through time, several times.”

“Hmm,” Roy hummed, eyes closing, and Riza pulled his hands towards her lap so she could gently massage them, “if he did, he must've done it the conventional way. Right now I’m under the impression that he’s yet to do a conscious time leap, the one he’s been researching all this while,” he opened one eye, “does he not tell you about his researches at all?”

“No,” Riza admits, “and I’m not very curious about it.”

“Time alchemy is rarely practiced, I know, but the only known way, before I met your father, that is, is by transporting yourself—your body to a point in the past, by opening a wormhole between times, like a gate of sorts,” he explained softly. “But that way, you… visit. Does that make sense?”

Riza hid the way her hands tremble a little by lacing her fingers with his.

“That way, you’ll travel back in time in your current state, and _there_ , at your point of arrival, will also be the you of that time—so, two of you, of different ages,” he continued, “he’s developing a way, right now, for one to travel back in time, _in_ the body one were in at that moment back then. So it’s your consciousness, that traveled through time—not your body.”

Riza let it sink in—it made sense. Of course, it made perfect sense. She’d been so young when her father first told her about it, and up until the incident—up until now, even, perhaps, she had let herself believe that his father’s fixation of traveling back in time, to meet Mom, had been for both of them. _Riza,_ you _want to see Mom too, don’t you?_ She did; for a girl who knew nothing about the person who gave her life, of course she wanted to see her.

For years she’d been believing that one day, one day she would meet Mother, but after their only, and failed, attempt, she had unconsciously, slowly let go of the wish. But even if now she’d come to accept she might not meet her mother, ever, it hurt to know that after all, Father had never done it for her sake.

“I’m sorry,” Roy’s voice broke her out of her reverie. She felt his hand, gentle on her cheek. “I should’ve known better than talk about that, I asked you to leave your bed to talk, and here I am, running my mouth off about your father and something I know you’re… averse to.”

“I never said I dislike alchemy,” she said, leaning into the touch.

“I know, but I’ve been able tell,” Roy winced, “and yet, it’s all I talk about. Sorry.”

Riza took his hand again in hers and smiled down at them. “Just because it’s… dangerous.”

He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I’ll never let it hurt you.”

She hoped her smile won’t come out as bitter as she’d felt.

+

“You’re seventeen, now!”

Riza rolled her eyes and bit into the pancake again. It was only slightly undercooked on the inside, but the gesture was appreciated. She had nearly stumbled backwards when she stepped into the threshold of the kitchen and found Roy already in there, valiantly trying to save the pancakes from getting burnt on the outside (the fire was too big). It was weird to think that at times she thought of him as someone far more mature, someone to look up to, when she saw how he was panicking in front of a stove.

“Thank you.”

“And sorry about this,” he said miserably, “I tried to just, transmute the flour and eggs but it didn’t work.”

“Of course it didn’t, Roy,” she smiled, “thank you anyways. It’s the thought that counts.”

“All right. By the way, you know,” Roy winced as he bit a slightly gooey part on the inside of his pancake, “you never told me about your last year of school. How’d it went?”

Riza raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure what’s there to tell,” she said truthfully, thinking. “I… made a friend. Her name’s Helen—she’s nice to me. You probably have seen her once or twice, the brunette, she’s often with two chatty blondes.”

Roy smiled, kind and genuine. “I think I did. I’m glad, though,” he said, “I hate to think of you being lonely when I was gone. Or worse, bothered. I’d feel horrible.”

“I was lonely, a little,” she admitted, “but it was fine. As I’ve told you, Father’s not exactly the most popular man around, so it was understandable the townsfolk don’t really want to associate with us too much.”

Roy opened and closed his mouth, and then gave her a strange look—but it was fleeting, and gone in such an instant that Riza barely caught it enough to wonder about it. She only hoped it wasn’t pity.

“And I graduated top of my class.”

“That’s incredible,” Roy exclaimed, grinning—his shift in expression was smooth, but she still caught the small flicker of sadness she thought she’d seen, “did they give you a plaque or some sort for it? By the way, what do you want to do, next?”

“I suppose apply for a scholarship, like you. I’d like to continue college,” she shrugged, “and they did, actually, it’s in my room. It wasn’t a big deal or anything, the principal gave it to me and congratulated me.”

He hummed, thinking. “I’m quite sure you’ll be eligible for a number of scholarships. Do you have anything in mind—or, you know, do you have anywhere in mind?”

She’d considered this for a while—her teacher had told her the National University in Central was the best choice, and the thought of Central, while exciting, was somewhat intimidating and so far-off from everything she’d known. She wondered if her father would be alright—only slightly bitterly, she wondered if he even thought of her the same way—if she went so far. But he was her only family, after all, and she was sure he would simply waste away if he was left alone.

Then there was East City, almost equally unfamiliar, but much closer, less daunting. And it was where Roy had gone—though she could say the same for Central, for he was born-and-raised there.

“I think East City would be more,” she vaguely gestured, “realistic. Father’s health fluctuates, I don’t know if I should go too far, like to the National University.”

Roy regarded her thoughtfully as he brushed his hair with his fingers, one hand with his fork hovering before his mouth. He idly mussed his hair as he bit onto the pancake, and Riza’s heart jumped a little. It was a bit unfair how handsome he was, she thought—and instantly she dismissed herself, embarrassed. He was here offering her actual advice for her future and she got distracted by his looks instead. “You would love East City. Maybe you could visit me before you decide.”

She would love—to visit him. “I would like that.”

“I’ll ask your father’s permission,” he smiled, and then it turned into a conspiratorial smirk, “I’ll tell him it’s to show you the university, when in reality I’ll take you out and about the City.”

Riza smiled as she moved to wash their dishes; there was something about how, despite knowing the lack of family fondness between her and her father, Roy always made sure to ask her father’s permission. It wasn’t only a testament on how gentlemanly he was, but it was soothing, how the gesture felt like he promised to keep her safe. She wondered what her father thought of them, sometimes—she’d think he wouldn’t care about what she was up to with his student, but at the same time, she knew if he wasn’t pleased with their friendship he would’ve made it known since long ago.

She wondered if Father ever talked about her with Roy; it sounded outlandish, impossible, what with her father’s tunnel vision of his alchemy, to even thought about—Father, caring about his estranged daughter’s silly infatuation with a boy?

“Do you like undercooked pancakes that much?”

Riza blinked, and laughed as he broke her out of her reverie—not expecting his sudden accusation. “I do not,” she said, still chuckling, “I was just trying to not hurt your feelings.”

“You’re getting dreamy-eyed about it.”

“I am not,” she huffed.

“Okay, maybe you’re not,” he grinned, leaning on the counter next to her, “but you still have crumbs near your mouth.”

“Roy!” She said, mortified at the way he laughed and made fun of her, as she tried to wipe the edges of her mouth with her finger. “There’s nothing—“

“No, it’s there—here—“

It wasn’t a kiss. He’d gently took her chin and she’d thought he would point and swipe the edge of her mouth when he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. It wasn’t a kiss more so a soft peck; it was short, chaste and sweet, and it had driven her heart way too quick for what it had been. Riza didn’t even have time to close her eyes—she stared wide-eyed, frozen in place, as Roy pulled back, grinning, slightly flushed in the face himself.

“It’s gone now,” he whispered, voice low and slightly cracking. “Happy birthday, Riza.”

+

She’d gotten herself a job at the general store in the town, a week after Roy had returned to university. She fashioned a saving box from an old paper storage box she’d found in the attic, and started to save a little bit of money from her weekly wages; she didn’t tell Roy about it in her letter. He signed his letters _with love,_ now. She signed hers _yours truly_ —she always did.

Four days before Roy’s birthday her father fell ill—she’d returned from work a little late, having stopped first at the post office to drop her letter and present—an embroidered handkerchief—and when she was home she heard the kettle whistling, and her father, uncharacteristically out of his library, was wading towards the kitchen in a fit of coughs, steps barely stable. Riza ran to the kitchen to turn the kettle off and went to him, worry overcoming her.

“Father?” She touched his arm, and even from there she could feel his fever. “Father, you’re sick.”

He waved her in dismissal, still coughing to his handkerchief; with horror Riza realised he’d coughed up specks of blood. “Father—“

“Would you finish making the tea? I—“ more coughing, and a shaky breath, “—sorry.”

She led him to the couch and ran to do as he said, a million things running through her head. He’d been sick for a few days, she’d heard his coughs from inside the library, at times, but all this time he had never been this severe, and the sight of blood terrified her. He also rarely lost his breath like this when he was sick. “Father, you’re so ill,” she whispered as he helplessly collapsed in a heap on the couch. Her hands tremble as she put the cup of tea. “I’ll get the doctor for you.”

“There’s no need.”

“But—“

“There’s no need!” He repeated firmly, again erupting with coughs. He sipped the tea gingerly with shaky hands, and leaned back. “There’s no need. I don’t have enough to pay one.”

“I do,” she told him, remembering the box on her desk.

Father looked at her properly, this time, and it dawned on Riza how, as he had never truly minded her, she hadn’t minded him as well. Her father looked years past his age, skin sallow and eyes hollowed out, lines marring his forehead and dark shadows underneath his eyes. She swallowed in the sudden guilt and pang of pain that shot through her. “No,” he took a deep breath, “I know you worked because you were saving to go to East City.”

Riza sat next to him, a little lost. Father huffed out a small scoff. “That boy told me before he’d gone, that he might want to show you East University.”

“I could go another time.”

“No, you should go in spring. East City is too hot in summers,” Father said, closing his eyes. “If you save up throughout this winter, it should be enough if you want to stay there a while.”

“I didn’t—“ she trembled, suddenly feeling awful, “—Father, I—“

He opened his eyes tiredly. He reached to fleetingly hold her hand with his burning own. “Don’t be silly, Riza. I’ve seen how you looked at him, and I’ve heard how he talked about you. I’d know what it is anywhere.”

In her guilt, Riza spent the following week to nurse Father back to health—he was delirious, at times, but for some reason, his delirium had him talk to her for what might be the most in the last eight years. She secretly bought him medicine despite his refusal, anyways, and the bloody coughs subsided after days. It was strange to have Father felt almost like the old _him_ , but Riza only realised how much she’d missed her only parent until now. It seemed that it went both ways; the way he had to be reliant to her had opened locked gates between father and daughter, and despite everything, Riza found herself feeling almost happy, if not relieved, to be able to hold somewhat normal conversation with him, without unprecedented tension.

When he was strong enough to get out of bed he ate at the table with her—and the gesture was oddly touching, to her, that she wrote Roy about it. Their conversations were mostly short, but there was an ease that flowed between them.

“What do you have in mind for higher education?” He asked, and she shifted uneasily, unknowing whether or not he would approve.

“I suppose humanities and literature,” she answered cautiously, “I find myself sufficient in languages, Father.”

Father regarded her contemplatively and leaned back. “I had never gotten around to teach you Xerxian.”

There was an apology there, somewhere. Riza swallowed. “I managed.”

Her father stood up, and walked towards the library with no further words, and Riza tried to fend off her disappointment with no success. It should be expected—once he was well enough to dive back to alchemy there was no reason for him to pay attention to her again, there was no more reason for him to continue the awkward mending of their familial ties.

But he continued to eat his dinners on the table with her.

+

_1906_

Roy visited in early March, staying over on the weekend as he told her how his thesis went—it went well, and he would definitely be in line for the late June graduation. “That way, I’d be able to enter the State Certification Exam this year.”

“In August?”

“Mm. And you? Have you made up your mind about university?”

Riza shrugged. He’d picked her up from town, and they’d gone to take a walk and sit along the old creek—it was lovely at this time of year, the beds lined with small flower and some small critters still would’ve popped nearby. The stream would be steady and refreshing, and Roy had missed the place. “Father approved, but I’m still not sure about… leaving him for so long,” she picked on the grass by her hands, “his health is alright now, but the moment he gets intense with time alchemy again, he’ll just… deteriorate.”

Roy opened his eyes and reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear—he was lying on the grass, head on her lap. “You could write him time-to-time. And maybe I can help install a telephone line at your house,” he said lightly. Their house didn’t have a telephone—they were a little bit further in the village rather than the town, and the neighbours in the closest radius did not have it either. They were far enough, in fact, that the mailman only came by once a week, and since she was used to commuting to town anyways, it was always easier to go to the post office. If her father was to be alone, she doubted he would have the time—energy—want—to go all the way to town only to reply her letters.

“I’m not sure it’ll be easy. We’ll have to ask the town’s mayor for permission.”

He let his hand drop back down to fold on his chest. “You know,” he said, “I’m rather glad with how things seem to be on the mend with you and your father.”

“Me too,” she admitted, and then paused, “I asked him, once. If—if he truly is still trying to meet my mom.”

Roy didn’t say anything and waited, his weight comforting on her despite the small tingling on her legs she was beginning to feel from not moving. Riza absently carded her fingers through his hair. His hair was always so soft. “He said yes, and then apologised for being unable to bring me,” she quietly said, “honestly, I don’t know if I still wish to see my mother. I mean—of course. But I’ve never known her. Father, on the other hand, was my only parent.”

“I suppose I’ll never be enough for him to live in the moment and not chase the past,” she said, smiling wistfully. Roy grunted as he lifted himself off of her, and twisted slightly so their noses almost touch. “One day when you master time alchemy and time travel like Father does… I don’t wish to see you waste away your health and future for an uncertain chance to start over.”

He didn’t answer, but Roy leaned in to kiss her. His lips pressed softly onto hers, and just as she instinctively tilted her head his mouth part and his warm tongue touched her, soft and slow. Riza opened her mouth and he kissed deeper; she didn’t even realise they were lowering her onto the ground until the back of her head felt the prickly grass. Roy still had an arm across, but he brought his hand to cup her face and caress her jaw. He didn’t stop as she made a small voice that embarrassingly sounded like a moan, only kissed her harder until she became breathless.

As the sun was starting to lower itself to sleep and the sky taking a warm, orange hue they straightened themselves, fixed hems and collars, brushed off grass from their backsides, and cleaned their slightly dirty hands in the water. Roy dried her hands with the handkerchief she’d sent him on his previous birthday, and they walked back to her house hand-in-hand. Her father was, surprisingly, out of the library in the living room when they stepped in, and Riza instantly let go of her hold, but Roy didn’t show any signs of sheepishness from being caught. Father didn’t comment, though his eyes did travel to where their fingers had twined.

“I was wondering if there’s been a line in the post office,” he said dryly to Roy, who grinned and shook his head as he fished inside his jacket for said letters.

“No, Sir. Here they are,” he handed it to Father and Riza made a move upstairs, “I just had Miss Hawkeye accompany me for a walk. I do miss the countryside, Master.”

“Sure you do,” her father replied, sounding unamused, “Riza, before you prepare for dinner.”

She halted and turned, still feeling slightly warm in her cheeks. “Yes, Father?”

“Here,” he handed her a thin envelope—the paper was different, a little more yellow, and thinner—but more rigid, and she could tell it was an expensive parchment not often used outside formal correspondences. It was sealed with a stamped red wax and the logo was a little familiar—it was that of University of Eastern Amestris. The front had, in elegant cursive writing, the words of _Recommendation Letter for Ms. R. Hawkeye._

“I took the liberty of sending your school credentials and graduation details to an old colleague, to ask for a recommendation letter,” Riza looked up in surprise, and Roy’s eyebrows shot up as well, “I had given Mustang my recommendation when he signed up, but you would need someone else to do that.”

Riza clutched the edges of the letter, careful to not wrinkle it, and stared down in disbelief, re-reading the subject over and over again. She swallowed, trying to fight back the way her throat felt hoarse, and the way her eyes stung. She didn’t trust herself to speak—to have Father did all of this for her—

“You should send the scholarship application soon,” he told her, clearing his throat, “so you could start the next semester.”

“I—thank you, Father,” she said, voice almost cracking, “this meant a lot for me.”

“You do know I find education to be of utmost importance, even if the people in alchemical academic circles nowadays are barely critical enough to truly be seekers of truth,” he grumbled noncommittally, and walked away towards the library. “Do knock when we’re ready to have dinner.”

Riza didn’t realise she was frozen in place, nor did she realise her tears had fallen until she felt Roy’s warm hands on her face, brushing her tears away. She was still clutching the letter with both hands to her chest. For some reason, it felt like a knot had been unbound from around her chest—there was a sharp ache and simultaneous relief that swept her, from the knowledge that her father had done something that might have been painstaking, _for her_. That he cared. He’d burned bridges with his colleagues, nearly all of them, and to ask for such a thing couldn’t have been easy. But he did it for her.

She let Roy hold her for a while, and when she pulled away she found herself filled with a lightness she hadn’t felt in a while.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently, this is going to be a pretty long one,,,,


	5. part 1, chapter 5

> **_PART 1 ; an art to life's distractions_ **
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Chapter 5 | the way she tells me i'm hers and she is mine**

_1906_

Roy had spent most of the summer at their house, incredibly laid-back and content with his imminent graduation, and confident about his pending certification results. True to his words he’d helped install a telephone line, having obtained permission from the mayor with considerable ease and even used the help of his alchemy to did so. He’d charitably helped one neighbour of hers, the old and brittle Mrs. Briar, to install one at her house. In the short span of a little over one month, he’d turned into some sort of a local celebrity, and it made Riza felt equally fond and envious. Roy was, after all, naturally charming and sociable, unlike either of the two Hawkeyes.

Her father had seemingly grown more relaxed, to Riza’s delight, and she’d dared to think with Roy’s coming into their lives her house felt a little bit more like a home—that she felt like she had a family, now. The two men’s talk behind the library door had sounded warmer though she knew they would be talking about alchemy, and her father joined them on the dinner table for a good amount of days of the week.

She felt the happiest she’d been in a long time.

When it was finally time for her to leave for East City with Roy, her father had awkwardly patted her on the shoulders, and grunted in assent to her promise of calling and writing, and Riza braved herself to ask him to take care of his health. Roy had held her hand as they walk off from her door. Her father never said anything about them.

Her first couple of months as a university freshman was mostly spent situating. She had opted for the scholarship-covered student housing as per Roy’s suggestion—at the end of September his state exam results were out, and he would be eligible to work at the State Alchemist Association’s Eastern Branch Research Centre. It was an academically prestigious fresh-graduate job, and soon enough Roy became busy with work; Riza herself found herself a part-time job waiting on a small restaurant nearby, and it became harder for them to meet.

She didn’t mind, though—they made time, and Roy sneaked around to see her at her job, to her dismay leaving tips large enough for a whole meal, and when they couldn’t meet, they’d talk on the phone—hers from the student centre’s phone booth and him from the one near his apartment. Riza wrote her father, short letters that were usually replied as shortly some two or three-weeks later, and sometimes called, holding equally short conversations that she nonetheless cherished. She occasionally wrote Helen Atkins—now Helen Wetterling. She found herself acclimating well to life in the city, and Riza enjoyed it.

Her roommate was a blunt, but not unkind, East City native called Rebecca Catalina—with wild hair, wilder mind, and though she’d been cautious in starting a friendship the brunette was overwhelmingly welcoming, and sooner than later Riza found herself having a circle of friends that were so genuine and warm, a group of people whose company she immensely enjoyed, so much so that Roy joked of him getting sidelined.

“And here I thought I’d have you all to myself,” he said, slightly pouting for good measure, and Riza had laughed to hide her blush.

She never would have thought she could have this: a life so warm and colourful and _normal_ , after years of living with her father—haunted by the ghost of his past, and in turn, haunted her with his absence and his alchemy—and found herself hoping she would be able to keep it all close for as long as she lived.

+

Her waitress salary left her only little spare if she wanted to travel back home for Winter Solstice—Roy offered to pay, but between him now having to pay proper rent after living in student housing during his educational period and his busy new position, he wouldn’t be able to come visit. Riza figured that, as her father had always regarded Winter Solstice like any other day anyways, she should stay. And the city offered so many, many more things than a slightly meatier meal in her drab childhood home—Riza had taken the festive atmosphere in delight and wonder, as Roy had shown her how prettily both the university complex and the main town hall were decorated in that time of year. It was a whole new world, to say the least. So she wrote to her father that she would rather save her money to go back and stay throughout summer break, rather than getting the markedly pricier tickets for a weekend stay in this holiday.

Rebecca had offered to spend time with her family, and Riza had genuinely contemplated it before deciding against; she had never, in her life, interacted and be so intimately acquainted with someone else’s family, and the notion of it intimidated her. To a degree, she worried she would be jealous, even. She couldn’t say this to Rebecca, of course—so she simply politely declined.

It left only Roy.

It would be a lie for her to say there wasn't a certain nervousness associated with the situation, however it wasn’t by purpose. Certain innocences were lost by the passage of time, and Riza was way over eighteen, now—back when they were younger they’d shared kisses within the safe vicinity of her father’s dwelling. Now they’re alone with only each other as their closest kin in a city far away from their respective families, with little worries of a parent’s watchful eye. He hadn’t ask her to spend the solstice with her, but she knew it would come—and, well, she’d be a fool to not admit she anticipated it.

She’d always known it would be Roy after all.

+

“Maes invited us to spend the solstice with his fiancee,” he told her as he waited for her to close. Roy took off his glove and extended his hand for her to take as Riza locked the restaurant door. Riza laced her fingers with his; his were slightly colder, but he took their interlocked hands inside his coat pocket for warmth as they walked away in the direction of her dorm. “In Central.”

“Central?” She asked, surprised. Maes Hughes was Roy’s friend from university days, a friendly and smart legal advisor at the research centre. She’s never been to Central—the obvious—but it was where Roy had grown up before he had came to study with her father. It was where his aunt and foster mother lived, and subsequently his many foster sisters—his family. “I’ll… have to take quite an amount from my savings.”

“I know, that’s why I hadn’t had the thought to bring you to Central to meet my family,” Riza’s heart skipped a beat at that, “but Maes offered to join him with his car.”

“Oh,” she quietly said. Roy looked at her contemplatively and took her hand out of his pocket to kiss it; he offered her a small smile.

“Of course only if you want to,” he told her kindly, “if you don’t want to it’s alright, I’ll stay here with you. We can have dinner and go for a stroll, it’s always nice in the eve. Then I can pick you up in the morning to—“

“I’d like to,” she said. “I’ve never been to Central. It sounds wonderful.”

She felt his thumb absently rubbing her knuckle as they walked. “Maes and Gracia also would be alone this time. He heard we’d be staying, so he invited me and told me to ask you,” he fiddled with his scarf nervously, “we can just visit them, you don’t have to visit my family if—“

“Roy, it’s okay,” she said, her heart betraying her calm voice. “I’d love to meet your family if you want me to.”

He turned around to look at her with surprise. “Are you sure?”

“I—of course, if they’d have me.”

“They’d _love_ you,” Roy said, a grin spreading on his face in place of the hesitancy, “I’m pretty sure they already _do_ love you. Vanessa always says she really wants to meet you one day.”

Riza buried her face slightly in her scarf. “I’ll have to be honest, it makes me nervous.”

They stopped in front of the entrance of her dorm; and Roy squeezed her hand once before letting go as he moved to face her. “I don’t want to overwhelm you,” he said, gingerly tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. Her hair’s longer, now, reaching her shoulder. “I just… you’ve mentioned you spend December 25th only with Master Hawkeye all your life, and he never made it a special occasion. I want you to experience spending it surrounded by friends—and—maybe you’d like it, you know? Of course, I don’t want you to be too nervous or worried because it’s my family.”

“I turned down Rebecca’s offer to spend time with her family,” she hesitantly said, “I’ve never really been… acquainted with someone else’s whole family.”

“And they’ll understand if you don’t want to meet them yet,” he said, pulling her into a hug. “I just want to create a happy memory for you.”

Riza smiled to his shoulder; his embrace was warm, and his words warmer. “I want to,” she told him, finding herself genuinely sure. “As I said, I’m just a little nervous—what if they don’t like me—“

“There’s nothing to not like about you,” he told her, dipping in for a kiss to her cold cheek. Riza thought it’s not true, there would be a lot. But Roy had always made sure to tell her otherwise.

“I’m sure there would be,” she mumbled anyways. Roy smiled; he gently caressed her hair and brushed away the ones on her face.

“They’ll love you,” he said, “because I do.”

Riza felt her walls crumble; her worries dissipating like melted snow. “What,” she asked anyways, in a tiny voice, uncertain. There was once upon a time she entertained this thought of being showered by this declaration, and now Roy would be the first person to tell her so.

“I love you,” he told her as he smiled at her fondly, without skipping a beat. Riza looked up at him with wonder and disbelief mixed into one, “I think I always do.”

There were no mistletoes by her door, but she kissed him all the same.

+

Maes Hughes was loud—perhaps as much as Rebecca, maybe more. He was jovial and open, and he made sure to cajole her into the conversation instead of forgetting her in the backseat. He’d told them that it would be his and Gracia’s first Winter Solstice alone, too.

“She’s needed at the hospital by the twenty-fifth,” he said of Gracia’s occupation as a nurse, “so she wouldn’t be able to come back here. I offered her parents to come, but they opted out because they didn’t want to go through the road trip, plus, hotel prices would be insane. My mom had to take care of my grandfather, so they couldn’t either.”

“They could’ve stayed at my aunt’s,” Roy commented, “we had rooms. She’d give a good price or even none at all.”

Hughes laughed. “Gracia’s parents are _very conservative_. Especially her father—by God, that man. They can get cardiac arrest staying in a bar.”

“That’s insulting,” Roy huffed, though Riza suspected he wasn’t at all insulted. True, there’d been less-than-conservative connotations associated with bar-rooms; that much was obvious. She felt her cheeks warming up from the thought—it was where she would stay. The place where he grew up happened to be a bar, and that was fine by her—but still, it brought a flush to her face.

Gracia was, true to her name, gracious and kind, carrying a motherly sort of air that Riza suspected she would never have—a sort that stemmed from a life filled of warmth and love from a mother. There was a sort of jealousy she couldn’t help, but Roy’s hand on her shoulder and around her waist, his thumb running back and forth on her knuckles, grounded her. They had left the couple’s dwelling warm and sated and slightly buzzing from the wine.

Riza had no chance to bristle at the outrageous taxi price Roy paid, for the contentment she felt after her first actual proper Winter Solstice dinner in all her life was promptly replaced by trepidation as they approached Christmas’ Bar. The place was lit up like the whole street had been, a far cry from the stillness that used to envelop her childhood home like layers of snow. She must have stiffened noticeably enough that Roy dipped down to press a slightly sloppy kiss on her cheek.

“Relax,” he assured her warmly, “everyone will love you—I’m pretty sure they already do.”

 _How_ , she wanted to ask; but it was caught in her throat as a shrill shriek welcomed them as she first set foot. “ _You brought her!_ ”

“Cat,” Roy groaned, but he grinned nonetheless, “you’re going to scare her.”

Catherine was a beautiful blonde bombshell with blue eyes, standing a little shorter than herself, but her zealousness was palpable. With glee she introduced herself, and soon young women, every single one of them insecurity-inducing and terribly attractive, flocked to their seats as Riza tried not to sink. Vanessa, warm and friendly brunette with bright hazel eyes and sweet red lips. Jeanette, a calmer strawberry blonde who seemed to be older than most. Pauline, slightly boyish short black hair. Theresa, a petite girl with beautiful, thick ginger hair. Riza tried to commit Roy’s family to memory.

“You’re so _young_ ,” Vanessa cooed, “and you have the loveliest eyes. Has our fool of a brother ever told you that? No? For God’s sake, Roy, get it together.”

“Shut it, Van,” he said without venom. Riza smiled. They were a lovely bunch.

“Don’t patronise the girl,” a deep, commanding voice of a woman said. Riza felt her body stiffen, but none sitting on their booth showed the same sort of alert. “She’s been on a drive, haven’t you? She must be tired, not to mention slightly tipsy, aren’t you? Roy-boy, I raised you better than that.”

Roy left her side for the first time that night, though without losing his hold on her hand. He stood up and slipped to greet the formidable woman—the woman must have looked a sight when she’d been younger, Riza thought. Her black hair was tightly kept in a bun and her piercing eyes were black and glimmering. Roy kissed her on the cheek. “Hello, Aunt Chris,” he grinned, “this is Riza Hawkeye. Riza, my aunt and foster mom.”

“You can call me Madame Christmas, or Chris, my dear, whatever suits you,” she said.

“Thank you for having me,” Riza said nervously, “I’m sorry to impose.”

“Nonsense,” she said gruffly, but it was kind. “Now, aren’t you tired? I’ve prepared Roy-boy’s old room for you, I hope you don’t mind. He can show you where to rest. Roy-boy, make sure you wake up earlier than her so you can give her a glass of water and some medicine if needed. Did you have much to drink?”

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” Roy groaned, and his sisters giggled. “And no, we didn’t.”

“Good,” Chris said, satisfied. “You should rest, Miss Riza. Tomorrow we can converse again in the morning, during breakfast, or even later. Do forgive the girls, we’re just glad to have you, after only knowing you through Roy’s letters.”

Most of them easily scurried away and retreated, then, except for Cat who landed a small peck on Riza’s cheek in spite of Roy’s weak _hey_. She gave her a small wink that had zero effect to reduce her tension. Even after the food, the booze, the laughters and the warmth of being with a family, Riza felt her steps falter a little as Roy led her to his room. When they stepped in Riza was sure she was wholly sober.

But he didn’t close the door. Roy put her belongings down and showed her around; he had little personal effects, just like how he was in her house, mostly just books and chalks and papers. However, he had a framed photograph on his desk, tattered and slightly faded, depicting a dark-haired man who looked like Chris Mustang and a beautiful woman who uncannily looked like him smiling widely at the camera. The woman was wearing a white traditional Xingese dress. “My parents,” he said fondly. “This is the second picture I had of them. I wanted to bring it with me, but this one’s too precious to lose,” he reached to his pocket to retrieve his wallet, and pulled a smaller picture, one not as faded. In it, the beautiful woman held a smiling baby in her arms. Both the pictures reminded her of photographs of her mother back home. “This one’s too, but… Well.”

She snaked her arms around his middle and leaned in to hug him. “They look lovely.”

“I think so too,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “Did you have a good time, tonight?”

“I did,” Riza shyly said, “it was nice, surrounded by friends and family on Winter Solstice. It’s… a crowd. I like it.”

His chest rumbled slightly with his laugh. “I told you my family already loved you,” he grinned, “I sang high praises for you in every single letter I wrote, you know, I’ve been conditioning them to like you for years.”

Riza laughed. “Is that so?”

“Mm,” he put down his wallet and photograph on the desk and turned to face her, before leaning down to give her a kiss. He pressed his lips softly to hers and then gently, his tongue caressed the seam of her mouth to ask for entrance. Riza let him. She pulled him closer as she linked her fingers behind his neck, and he did the same, pulling her until they were flush together by the waist. He kissed her until she felt light-headed and it felt harder to breathe, but she didn’t mind.

The door was still ajar.

Roy pulled away first, breathing slightly ragged as he leaned forward so their foreheads touched. Once more, he planted a brief, soft kiss on her parted lips. “Goodnight, Riza,” he said, loosening his hold on her and moving towards the door, much to her dismay. “Thank you for spending this time with me. I love you.”

Since he had said it the first time, she had never said it back. It felt strange, foreign on her tongue; but then again, he had come into her life bringing a plethora of foreign things that were far better and warmer than anything she had ever grown up with.

But it was like Roy knew, and he didn’t mind. It hurt her slightly that she found it hard to reciprocate in verbal how much he meant to her. Riza wanted—she wanted him to know, even if he already did, she wanted him to know it, feel it, hear it that she loved him, loved him like she never loved anything else before. And she never did. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me. Sweet dreams.”

It was hesitant, but she steeled herself to hold him in place by reaching for his arm. “Roy, wait,” she said timidly. “Can—can you stay? Would it be fine?”

Riza knew the gears would turn if he looked into her eyes. She watched him contemplate and swallowed dryly, before settling for closing the door gently. “Are you—sure?” He asked, and it dawned on her how equally anxious he was, and it made her heart grow fonder. “Would that be alright?”

“Yes,” she whispered, boldly taking a step forward, so that their gravity fell centered once again.

Riza liked his eyes. They weren’t wholly black—under certain lights they would gleam dark blue, deep like the night, and the specks of light would make them look like a starry night sky. She loved looking at them up close like this. Roy’s hand trembled as he softly brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face; he rested his palm on her cheek, thumb caressing the raise of her cheekbone. There were still noise outside. It was muffled, like she heard it through water.

“Riza,” he said, “do you want this?”

The restraint in his voice was too evident; like the heart-hammering moments before throwing caution into the wind. It made her smile, almost as if it wasn’t her heart that was running miles per second. “Yes,” she said shyly, circling her fingers around his wrist, “I do.”

The way he kissed her next wasn’t rushed, but it was laced with an urgency that she had never felt before. They had shared passionate kisses before, but the scale this time was tipped so far that Riza thought there were nothing else in the world but him; only Roy Mustang. A kiss began when another ended, and she was breathless by the time her back hit the mattress of his bed. She felt the duvet was still tidy over the sheets.

She’d took off her jacket, but she was still wearing layers of her dress and sweater; yet the way his hand touched her felt heavy, real, and Riza thought she felt her skin would burn if she couldn’t feel his. The skirt of her dress rode as she lifted her knees. Riza slipped her hands underneath the hem of his sweater, tugging on it and reluctantly breaking his kiss to push him away. Roy impatiently took it off, and she sat up, swiftly doing the same. By the time they got rid of their clothings he wasted no time to dive back and instead of taking her breath away again he kissed the side of her jaw and planted kisses down through her neck; a soft spot by her pulse almost made her moan.

He pulled away to hover above her and kiss the edge of her mouth. “What was that?” He asked with a grin, breath heavy.

“You can hear more of it if…” Riza bit her lower lip, “you continue.”

The laughter that he let out was soft, the huff of breath warm on her cheeks. “God, Riza,” he whispered, reverent, excited, nervous. It was like their proximity made every single emotion she was feeling poured out of him as well; she could feel them, as palpable as her own. His laughter felt warm on her tongue, warmth that traveled down her chest to the depth of her belly. His touch felt like the licks of warm flame on her bare skin; but instead it made her shiver.

When she finally breathed again Roy trailed down kisses along her jaw, her neck, leaving marks on the juncture, and gently touched her breast, the fleeting touch just by the hem of her bra raising goosebumps all over. Slowly he moved bolder, massaging her through the thin fabric until a ragged sigh tumbled out of her, and unconsciously, Riza shifted her hips up; the contact with him through the fabrics still between them almost felt like aftershocks traveling up. She knew she must be really wet, now, but it almost felt painful not having him inside her.

“Riza,” he panted, as they continued to grind on each other, “Riza, could I—“

Suddenly, like cold water being poured over her head, Riza froze. Roy had slipped his hand past her side and under her back to reach for the clasp of her bra, and what he found on his fingertips also made him pause.

Abruptly, she sat up, pulling the sheets so frantically to cover herself it popped off from the edges of the bed. “I—“

Roy’s hand hovered between them as he sat back on his heels; hardness still painfully evident through his trousers—but the surprise on his face only lasted seconds, before he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I—sorry. Uh, do—do you want to stop? Was I making you uncomfortable?”

Riza blinked.

“Do you?” She asked with a small voice.

“To be honest, preferably not,” he grimaced, “but I’ll manage.”

They sat like that awkwardly for some time, breathing still laboured, stuck between a state of arousal and confusion; but maybe mostly hers, for the latter. Roy moved first to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, though really, there shouldn’t be much difference as it were rumpled anyways. “Riza, if you think the scars on your back made me want to stop, no they don’t,” he said carefully, and Riza felt her eyes stung with the telltale signs of tears. “If you want to stop, though, then we stop.”

Slowly, she lowered the sheet she’d been guarding herself behind, and reached to hold his hand. “I… I don’t,” she told him quietly, as it was the truth. His thumb caressed the back of her hand, and though she knew it was an abrupt interruption, his face showed he held nothing against her.

Roy rubbed the back of his neck again; a nervous gesture she was somewhat familiar with for a while. “Do you—uh, do you not want me to touch your back, or any place else—not that I’m averse or anything—I mean, shit—“ Riza blinked at him in awe. In the odd years they’d known each other, it wasn’t often Roy tripped over his own words. He chuckled, then, before clearing his throat. “You know, I’m as new to this as you are.”

His words brought her a tender calm and Riza’s smile was reflexive, as was the way her hands reached out to cup his face and bring him to meet her lips. For someone who had been in her life for so long—as a matter of fact, the only person in her life she’d ever feel this much towards, it was staggering, sometimes, the realisation of how much space in her heart he had claimed for himself.

Really, she loved him.

“You have,” he said, in between kisses, “to tell me if—“

 _Be quiet_ , she thought, climbing up to sit on his lap as she kissed him hard. Roy’s arm closed around her waist and he rested his palm gently on her back, scoping out uncharted territory. But she didn’t flinch; she felt safe in his arms, always. He lowered her to lie underneath him again, his hand and tongue on her skin again lighting her nerve ends on fire, igniting the simmering warmth in her lower belly.

“It’ll be fine,” he told her breathlessly, “I think—Riza, stop laughing.”

“I think so too,” she said fondly, bare and open underneath him, “I trust you.”

In the wake of after, warm and sweaty and slightly sticky, she’d told him everything. From the way her father changed, the way she had to survive. The promises of meeting Mother. The burns marring her back after the attempt of the leap, the silence that accompanied Father’s shaky hands smearing ointment on her back. The jagged edges of her then-new short hair. The apology that never came, the hope of meeting her mother that died down with time. Roy was silent throughout as tears slip from her lids unbidden, and though she expected the winter temperature to get to them now that they were no longer moving, his arms still felt warm around her.

In the morning she woke with her back to him and felt the finger tracing the uneven plane gentle and wary. Riza turned around in Roy’s arms for the gesture still send the unpleasant sort of shivers down her spine. He seemed to understand, and opted to rest his palm on the small of her back to rub her soothingly, whispering _good morning_ to the top of her head.

“So all those times I babbled on to you about alchemy, thinking I’m being impressive and knowledgeable, not only were you uncomfortable, you’ve been past the lessons,” he suddenly voiced, and Riza chuckled to his chest. “Lots of apologies I owe you.”

She settled further into the crook of his neck and looped her arm around him tight. Her eyes felt a bit heavy and stinging from crying. “You seemed to have a lot of fun reciting the theories, so I let you,” she said, “also, wasn’t it good practice?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” he said, hiding a yawn behind his palm. He pulled away a little to look at her properly, and smiled. “Thank you for telling me everything.”

“Thank you for listening,” she replied with a small kiss on his nose. “And I don’t… I’m not doing it to steer you to think a certain way about my father. After all it’s really thanks to you that we’re on the mend, now.”

“Me? I didn’t do anything.”

Riza smiled; she wondered if to him she’d look like a lovesick fool, which she was. “You came to my house and my life,” she said, despite the words feeling tough to spell out, heavy on her tongue, “thank you for that.”

“The other way can be said for you,” Roy told her, shifting a bit so he could give her a long, slow kiss.

Riza paused, hesitating. “You never told me what made you study time alchemy.”

Roy didn’t so much as freeze in her arms; instead he shifted up to sit, propping the pillows up and pulling her in an embrace again, hand running up and down her arms idly as he pondered on the question. Riza remained quiet, contemplating on whether she should retract the question.

“I wanted to help people,” he said softly just as she opened her mouth, the admittance brittle, “ ‘ _pro gloria et patria, pro scientia, pro bono_ ’. The Amestrian State Alchemist Association’s motto. I was an orphan—and there’s less Amestrian blood in my vessels than in yours, but all my life I’ve been here. I’ve seen what the country does and doesn’t do, I’ve seen what the people has and what they has not. State alchemists are amongst the highest classes of citizens… if one can change the country—no, the world, it’s them.”

“Your father was amongst the most brilliant,” he told her, “I know he hurt you… but had he been—“

She followed the direction of his eyes to his desk, where the picture of his parents sat.

“ _Pro se_ ,” she whispered, “that had been what fuelled him to develop time alchemy.”

The smile his mouth formed was somehow bittersweet, and she followed the direction of his eyes to his desk, where the picture of his parents sat, and a familiar ache bloomed in her chest, more biting than the morning cold.

“Roy,” she said urgently, holding his face to make him look at her, “if I ever die, promise me to never use it like my father did.”

Roy blinked, surprise flashing across his face. Then a soft smile took over, calming like a promise, and she let him bring her down to a kiss and then more.

They cuddled together for a long while as the sun rose higher outside and the room grew slightly warmer; he told her he both felt too comfortable there and dreaded going out to face his family, who definitely would be the end of him. Valid concern, as far as she was concerned herself. They’d face them later.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who's too chicken to write smut? me, it's me. FORGIVE......
> 
> i absolutely forgot where i found those latin mottos from i definitely found it somewhere fdsjjskjgdjkd i'm sorry


	6. part 1, chapter 6

> **_PART 1 ; an art to life's distractions_ **
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Chapter 6 | i will not ask you where you came from**

_1886_

East City was nothing like his obscure hometown; the nights were longer, here, brighter, livelier. The glow of the old streetlamp reminded him of the warm glow of alchemical circles, and it brought a calm, a familiarity better than the wide and quiet expanse of his old village. The city moved dynamically, like the gentle vibrations of an activated transmutation circle.

That said, he was always too busy to bask in the city’s nightlife liveliness anyways. Had far too much research in his hands to fully enjoy it. Not that Berthold minded; after all, for him, alchemy was his first priority—moreso that he was here, honoured as the best, youngest graduate in Applied Alchemy from East University, with a bright future as State Alchemist. His dreams were only a step away from becoming the truth.

So again, like an occasional routine, he walked the short path from the university’s lab to his flat at two in the morning, completely sober unlike the other patrons of the night he met scarcely on his way. Berthold stopped short in his tracks, however, when he saw an unfamiliar figure leaning by the door.

The young woman was wearing a hat and a coat, despite the warm summer night. From a glance Berthold can tell they were of the expensive kind. She carried herself in such a way as well, refined and poised, and when she lifted her face warily to look at him as he approached, the streetlamp by his flat provided enough light for him to see how _beautiful_ she was. Her blonde hair was tied back in a proper low bun, with only little stray strands about her face. Her eyes were a mesmerising shape of almond framed with long soft lashes. Berthold stopped in his tracks.

“Good evening,” he cautiously greeted. The young woman must be as young or even younger than him, but he sensed an air of defiance about her. He glanced at the two suitcases by her feet. “This is very late to be outside. May I help you?”

“Or very early, one might say,” she said dryly, and Berthold couldn’t help but crack a small smile. “Good morning, Sir. By any chance, do you live here?”

He adjusted his sling bag and his rolled research materials of circles. “I do happen to live here—in one of the units, that is,” he told her, “are you visiting anyone?”

Truthfully, it shouldn’t really matter if she did, because for all the years he lived here, he hadn’t really known much about his neighbours. He knew several by name, but that was that. At least his question would provide him an answer as to why such a woman would be here; the flat wasn’t really in a bad area, but still she seemed way out of place. “No, I actually was planning to move in two days, but due to certain circumstances,” to his amusement, her face visibly contorted in disdain, “I needed to move immediately.”

Berthold contemplated. “The landlords don’t live here, Miss,” he told her, and she looked oddly shocked, “they live about two blocks away. I’m afraid your keys would be with them, won’t they?”

She closed her eyes tiredly. “Of course, silly me,” she mumbled sarcastically to herself as she bent down to pick her suitcases up. “You don’t happen to know any inns or hotels around, do you?”

“There is, but it’s even further, Miss. You’d have to take an at least five-minutes taxi ride.”

“I seem to have run out of any other options, though,” she smiled thinly. “Thank you, Sir.”

She prepared herself to walk away when he made a split-second decision. “You could stay in my place until morning, Miss, if you want,” he said, and she looked at him like he was insane—which, maybe he was. “You could take my bed. I don’t sleep on it often, I usually sleep on the couch working. I promise I won’t do anything inappropriate.”

She looked at him with scrutiny for a little while. Berthold started to think his offer was thoroughly strange, and, well, it was, but he really wouldn’t do anything improper, and it just seemed peculiar enough a young woman like her was roaming around in the dead of dawn like this, moreover going around aimlessly looking for an inn. “I…” she sighed. “I’d be imposing.”

“It’s alright.”

He only belatedly realised how unwise his offer was (there was something to be said of _her_ about accepting the offer—undoubtedly even more unwise) when he opened his door with her in tow and displayed the state of his living room, with his books and research notes and circles on the floor he hadn’t mopped off. Before he could apologise, she huffed out a laugh.

He thought, maybe this was how it started.

Elinor Grumman was only nineteen, two years younger than him, and she’d left her home haphazardly, he learned. “Nothing dramatic,” she told him, “just that I had a plan to stay here away from my parents’ unending meddling with my life in the form of a man they wanted me to marry. I lied to them and told them I promised to stay at a friend’s house because her mother was gravely ill—on the day this man was supposed to come to my house. Lo and behold, they made him come two days earlier.”

She ended up sleeping at the end of his couch with him at the opposite. He was caught up in her witty banter and funny story that he didn’t realise how time had passed. She was smart, she was curious of his very apparent alchemical fixations, she was lively despite how tired they must be. And she was beautiful. Very, very beautiful, with her straw-blonde hair that waved on the place she had twisted into a bun, with her twinkling brown eyes.

She told him her parents had been trying valiantly—and failing—in marrying her off. She took a course as a secretary, and had worked under a literature professor in the university, and she had yet to have any interest in marriage. “The matter is,” she said, nose scrunching up in distaste, “this man they’ve been trying to introduce to me is from a politician’s family. He can marry me over my dead body. I bet he’s just after my family’s financial support for his shady projects.”

The Grumman family was one of considerable wealth—that much Berthold could infer from Elinor’s appearance alone, and it had sounded familiar until she told him her family had been a loyal sponsor for academics in University of Eastern Amestris that he realised, just how _insane_ this encounter was. He was late to the research laboratory, that morning, having helped Elinor meet their landlords and settle into her unit a floor above him.

She was supposed to stay only a week, but she ended living there a month, then three, and then six.

By then, he had worked up his courage to meet George Grumman.

+

_1887 - 1888_

He had a bit of help with alchemy, but still, turning wood into good-sized firewood was a task, especially in the dead of winter like this. Lighting up the cold and damp wood in the fireplace was a chore, too, one that made Berthold wish there was a possible way to develop flame alchemy. When he finally succeeded, they snuggled up on the sofa in front of it, finding it too comfortable to move to their main bedroom.

In retrospect, a lot had changed from the day he found her in front of his flat, at such an ungodly hour. Their courtship was fairly easy and warm, and it didn’t take much for him to win her parents’ blessings, being a promising young man of brilliant educational background. He had thought he’d dedicate his life to being an alchemist for a country, thought he would no longer need to live in a small village and enjoy a career in the city, but when Elinor expressed the wish to start a family in a smaller town Berthold found himself agreeing. He’d managed to earn enough to secure a big enough house with four bedrooms in a village four hours away by train from East City from his work at the laboratory, and while he didn’t enter to be a state alchemist, he landed a great job as a remote researcher at the university; he didn’t have to go every day to teach, only a couple days in two weeks. Gone were the days he thought he’d be spending unending hours researching alchemy; he found himself content with the prospect of a quiet life with his beloved wife, and to be there for his future family.

“You know,” she said, looking up at him from her place on his lap, eyes twinkling. Berthold fondly ran his fingers through her soft blonde tresses. “Riza is both a good name for a boy or a girl.”

Pregnancy was hard, evidently, but Elinor was anything if not a very strong (and headstrong) woman, and despite him having to travel to the city a lot, she remained solid on her feet. They’d decided on the first name she wanted, Riza, and she was both excited and scared. The next door neighbour, the widowed old Mrs. Briar, with five children of her own, only one of which still lived in town while the others moved away, was where she turned to in the absence of her parents. She grew extremely fond of Elinor, and really, anybody would.

She had learned so much and prepared so much to welcome their first child into the world, and Berthold couldn’t help but think how she would quite definitely be the best first-time mother there was, with the amount of things she already knew. She had recited them to him at nights they lie in bed, his palm warm on her belly, hoping for a significant movement; everything from feed like breastfeeding and alternative baby milk to weaning for food, how to change diapers, how to not let them get sick on colder days, how to not let them get sick on warmer days; once, even, she admitted she’d asked Mrs. Briar and some other women she’d grown to be good acquaintances with in town, how to best rear teenagers. She had everything planned, everything figured out. Berthold had laughed; Elinor was too prepared to be a mother for her own good. She did, after all, wanted a larger family, being an only child herself.

Sometimes life didn’t go as planned, however.

Elinor’s pregnancy was hard, but Riza’s birth was harder; the hours seemed endless until her cry tore through the night and September rain, and Berthold swore he’d never see Elinor look happier, more beautiful than that night. She held their tiny daughter in her arms and Berthold held them in his as the midwife and village doctor mended her. They were complete; a family—one of his own.

And the first week of Riza’s life passed like a breeze; Elinor was strong, amongst the strongest women Berthold knew. She’d wake up when their baby did to feed, no matter the time. She would hold her and rock her until she fell asleep on her chest amidst the stormy autumn nights, patiently humming a lullaby to the sweet baby’s ears.

Then it started—the tiredness, the difficulty breathing, the discomfort in her chest. Elinor would always dismiss them as the toll of being a new mother, despite his growing worry. She still would wake even before Riza cried, still braved the fatigue through.

Then she didn’t wake up.

The villagers and townspeople and his neighbours all shed their tears and shook their heads in pity—the young father, widowed by his equally young wife so early; their baby was only a month old. A late complication of labour, the doctor surmised, though to him it hardly mattered. He was left with a baby he had little idea to care for and a gaping wound that he had no time to stitch together.

+

They managed to stay alive, somehow. _He_ managed to keep both himself and Riza alive, somehow.

But still, day-by-day, he thought, it grew more and more impossible without Elinor. Still, day-by-day, he thought, he had had far too little time.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short extra one about ol bert! really he's not that old, he's just... been thru a lot that's why he looks old


End file.
